Grade: B
That thing, ‘indie rock’, is so well played and produced these days, so pristine and flawless, that it has become almost the antithesis of what it was back at the end of the 1970s, when the term was invented. Then it referred to bands who released stuff on small independent labels because the big labels wouldn’t take them on. Shouty, angsty and angular, or just weird and beloved by the befringed dolorous yoof, in their anoraks or donkey jackets, the whole thing had a pleasing DIY feel to it, even if it sometimes grated. These days ‘indie’ just tends to mean anodyne power pop played by whining blokes who haven’t had a shag for ages.
So it is, I think, for Seattle’s Band of Horses. I don’t actually hate their jangly-guitar post-Postcard schtick. And there are one or two cute moments on this album – which comes 14 years into their career (indie bands shouldn’t last that long).
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